


Mystrade Drabbles - A Day In The Life

by sunniskies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly fluff though let's be honest, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunniskies/pseuds/sunniskies
Summary: A collection of fluffy drabbles about Mycroft and Greg's life together. Established relationship, lots of fluff and h/c. Enjoy!
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	1. “We’re not buying Ikea furniture again”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working off prompts from here: https://wishiwasanavenger.tumblr.com/post/190047246564/prompt-list
> 
> Feel free to send me some in the comments!

Mycroft groaned and slumped down against the wall, utterly defeated. “I rather thought my demise would be stress or international politics, but now I know otherwise.” 

Greg huffed from his position on the floor where he was attempting to put together their new bookshelf. “Stop being dramatic, ‘s not that bad,” he mumbled, barely comprehensible through his mouthful of screws. “You just gotta..y’know..get used to it.” 

“There are some things that one is better off never getting used to, Gregory,” Mycroft sighed long-sufferingly. “I have people for things like this. Or better yet, I prefer to buy my furniture already _assembled_.” 

“Yeah and you’re a posh git,” Greg said, then laughed when Mycroft shot him a withering glare. He crawled across the rug to Mycroft, smiling. “Aw love, you’re just mad there’s something in the world you can’t figure out with that giant brain of yours.” 

Mycroft gently removed the screws Greg was still holding in his mouth (he refrained from commenting on how disgusting of a habit that was). “We are never buying Ikea furniture again,” Mycroft stated point-blank, dropping his head down to Greg’s shoulder. “My blood pressure simply can’t take it.” 

Greg chuckled and carded his fingers through Mycroft’s fine hair. “Alright, love. I just wanted to be able to buy _something_ , since you bought this giant house for us. DI’s salary doesn’t go far, ‘m afraid.” 

“What’s mine is yours Gregory, as I have conveyed to you on numerous occasions. You needn’t feel like you have anything to prove, my dear.” 

“Well, still,” Greg protested. “Moving in together is a big step. I want to feel like I’m, y’know, contributing.” 

Mycroft pulled Greg in for a long, soft kiss. “You contribute so much more to my life than you will ever realize,” he murmured against his lips. He pulled back to fix Greg with a look. “Now, will you _please_ let me buy us some proper furniture?” 

Greg laughed, surveying the current state of disaster that was their living room. “Oh alright,” he sighed. “I would’ve figured it out in the end, mind you.” 

“I have no doubt,” Mycroft stood briskly, dusting off his pants. “I will call someone to collect... _this_ …and we can look at some options online. I’ll make us some tea, would you like a cup?” 

“PG Tips?” Greg asked hopefully, which earned him another eye roll from Mycroft. 

“Let it not be said that you aren’t easy to please. PG Tips, dear.” 

“I’ll make a common man out of you yet, Mycroft Holmes.” 

“You may try,” Mycroft strode off to the kitchen, shaking his head at the fact that he had fallen so deeply in love with such a ridiculous man. 


	2. “I’m worried about you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg works. Mycroft worries.

Greg prided himself as being someone with excellent follow through. His dogged determination to solve crimes is what made him a good cop, and an even greater detective. 

However, this trait also meant that when he had an active case on the books, he could focus on nothing else until it was either solved or all possible leads were exhausted. 

He was currently in his office at Scotland Yard digging his way through another such case. A young single mother had turned up murdered in her own home, leaving her poor two-year-old son relegated to the foster system. Greg had hardly been able to eat or sleep since he’d begun working on the case a week ago, determined to at least get some justice for this poor woman and her son. 

He was pouring over the crime scene photos for the hundredth time, looking for anything he missed, when there was a soft knock on the door leading to his office. 

“Come in,” he called without looking up. He left the door open for a reason, so that anyone could come talk to him when they needed. 

There was a polite throat clearing that sounded familiar, and Greg finally drew his eyes away from the photos. “Mycroft! What’re you doing here?” 

“I was in the area,” Mycroft supplied, leaning elegantly against his ever-present black umbrella. 

Greg snorted at the obvious lie. Mycroft was never just ‘in the area.’ He was always exactly where he meant to be. 

“Sorry love, I can’t much chat right now,” Greg sighed, gesturing at his desk, which looked like it had been hit by a paper hurricane. “‘M in the thick of it.” 

“I am aware,” Mycroft gave a small sigh of his own, and settled into the chair in front of Greg’s desk. “I’m worried about you.” 

Greg rubbed his temples for a moment. Dealing with an overprotective boyfriend when he was in the middle of a case was not exactly what had in mind today. “Love...I appreciate your worry but I’ve got to solve this. Her son is two, Mycroft,  _ two.  _ And now he has no one.” Greg swallowed thickly against a sudden wave of emotion. 

“Truly awful. Cases involving young children always bother you the most,” Mycroft said quietly, nodding. “But Gregory, I’ve hardly seen you for a week. You’re barely sleeping three hours a night, let alone eating any semblance of regular meals. You can’t keep going on like this, my love.” 

“I’ve got to solve this,” Greg said stubbornly, crossing his arms. “This is the job, you know that.” 

“If you run yourself into the ground, you’re not helping anyone, Gregory.” 

“I’m not made of glass!” Greg stood abruptly and started pacing. Hot anger was rising in his gut. “Don’t you get it? This is up to me! I have to solve this. I have to get some goddamn justice out of this. Otherwise innocent people like her keep getting hurt!” 

“Breathe, Gregory.” Mycroft strolled over to him and placed a warm hand on his back, halting the pacing. “I know you’re upset, my love, it’s alright. Just breathe for a moment.” The taller man started rubbing soothing circles on the middle of his back, and Greg felt himself deflate just a little.

“God, I’m tired,” Greg admitted, letting Mycroft pull him against his chest. “So bloody tired.” 

“I know.” 

“I have to solve this.” 

“I know. That’s what makes you the admirable Detective Inspector you are.” 

“But?” Greg glanced up into the clear blue eyes of his lover. “I know you didn’t come here just to give me a backrub.” 

Mycroft brushed some hair off his forehead. “Come home, Gregory. It’s eight pm and you won’t get anywhere further tonight. Let me feed you a decent dinner and you can get a full night’s rest. You’ll be so much more effective tomorrow for it.” 

Greg sighed, already feeling his resolve starting to melt. “Can we order a curry?” 

“I already have a selection of curries and other dishes set to arrive at our residence in…” Mycroft glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.” 

“It’s annoying when you do that, you know,” Greg complained, but his stomach was already rumbling at the thought of something besides black coffee or biscuits. 

“Would you rather I cancel the order and you can wait another hour for delivery?” Mycroft raised a thin eyebrow. “Of course it can be arranged.” 

“Pompous bastard,” Greg rolled his eyes, throwing on his coat and shutting off the lights. “Let’s go home, you insufferable man.” 

Mycroft smiled, laced their fingers together and led Greg out to the chauffeured car ready for them out front. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts here: https://wishiwasanavenger.tumblr.com/post/190047246564/prompt-list


	3. "How drunk was I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably note that most of these will be Mycroft looking after Greg, because that is what I love. Sorry if that's not your thing!

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” Mycroft asked innocently, settling down the tray of tea and biscuits onto the bedside table. 

Greg tried to rise to a sitting position, groaned heavily, and flopped back down on the bed. “Don’t gloat. Feels like someone hit me with a lorry. Twice” 

“Oh, my dear,” Mycroft sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching over to run his long fingers through the other man’s silver strands. “I did rather anticipate this outcome, although I derive no pleasure in your pain as you suggest.” 

Greg groaned again. “Serves me right for tryin’ to drink with them twentysomethings. Don’t think’ve had that much since...well, yeah, since I was twenty. How drunk was I?” 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Perhaps some things are better left blissfully forgotten.” 

“So basically you’re saying I was a right mess,” Greg shook his head, then winced. “God my head aches.” 

“I suspect your stomach will be too unsettled for any paracetamol just yet.” Mycroft continued to run his fingers through Greg’s hair, not missing the pleased flutter of his eyelashes at the touch. “But if you’re able to sit up, a biscuit and some tea would probably be of some comfort.” 

With some maneuvering and no small amount of help on Mycroft’s part, Greg was able to sit up in bed against the headboard. Mycroft fluffed up the pillows, tucked a blanket around his legs, and carefully handed him a cup of milky tea. 

“You’re fussing,” Greg sipped his tea, then smiled softly. “Y’always fuss.” 

Mycroft felt his cheeks go pink. “I am simply concerned for your wellbeing, Gregory,” he huffed, looking away. 

A gentle, warm hand closed around his own. “I’m not complaining, love,” Greg met his eyes with a fond, tender look. “Just nice knowing you care, is all.” 

Mycroft leaned down and pressed a kiss to Greg’s forehead. “I do, Gregory. Now drink your tea.” 

Greg laughed and obediently took a sip of his tea. 

They ended up abandoning their Sunday brunch plans for a day spent in bed cuddling, drinking tea and watching old movies. And yet somehow, Mycroft didn’t mind at all.


	4. "It won't kill you if it touches you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg, at the beach.

“You know, it won’t kill you if it touches you, love.” 

Greg pulls down his sunglasses to give Mycroft a look . Mycroft, who’s currently sitting squarely in the middle of a very large beach towel without an ounce of sand on it, just narrows his eyes. 

“You’re lucky I’m even here, Gregory,” Mycroft sighs, dropping his novel, and picking up the bottle of sunblock instead. “We could go anywhere in the world and you choose the _beach_. Honestly.” 

Greg shifts over to join Mycroft on his oversized beach towel (carefully dusting off any remnants of sand first, of course) and steals the bottle of sunblock. He squeezes out a good measure into his palms and starts rubbing his lover’s pale shoulders with it, settling in behind him.

“Fair is fair,” Greg smiles, kissing one of his freckled shoulders. “You did pick the last few vacations. There’s only so many times one can see Prague.” 

“And Paris and Milan,” Mycroft interjects. “I seem to recall you being somewhat content when I fed you _fraises au chocolat_ in our suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower.” 

Greg’s glad Mycroft can’t see him redden - they did a lot more than eat fruit in that hotel room. 

Finishing with the sunblock, Greg moves to sit in front of Mycroft. He leans forward, cupping Mycroft’s jaw and pulling him in for a long kiss. His lips taste like chapstick and sunblock, and Greg savors the sound of the waves crashing behind him. 

“C’mon love,” he cajoles, running a hand through the peachy fuzz on Mycroft’s chest that he loves so much. “‘s not so miserable being here with me, is it?” 

Mycroft huffs but Greg can see the corner of his mouth twitch. “You are the only redeeming quality to this experience.” 

“Fair enough,” Greg grins and scoots closer, rubbing a hand down Mycroft's bare torso. “I got you out of a suit at least.” 

“I assure you, there are much simpler ways to get me out of a suit,” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I do believe you know a few.” 

“And you say _I’m_ a tease.” 

“Mm, quite.” Mycroft lets his eyes drift over Greg’s chest and shoulders. “Your mere existence is a tease to me, Gregory.” 

Greg feels himself go a bit pink again, and he hides it by leaning into Mycroft's cherry flavored lips. They spend the next few moments like that, sharing quiet kisses on their private beach, a fresh saltwater breeze blowing through their hair. For once, no one is demanding anything from either of them, and it’s absolute heaven. 

“I love you,” Greg murmurs when they finally drift apart, running his thumb over the constellation of freckles that pepper Mycroft’s nose and cheeks. He hardly ever gets to see these freckles, only when Mycroft gets some sun on a vacation like this. It’s yet another one of the intimate details that Greg feels honored to see - the parts of Mycroft that he only allows for him. 

Mycroft softens, rests his hand on top of Greg’s. “And I you, my dear.” 

Greg closes his eyes, relaxing into the moment. That is, until a loud timer sounds on Mycroft’s phone. 

“Ha, two hours!” Mycroft exclaims triumphantly, thrusting his screen at Greg. “I promised you two hours on this horrid sand, not a minute more.” 

Greg bursts out a laugh and shakes his head. Maybe it’s not all day, but a couple of perfect hours on the beach? It’s enough. 

“Alright love, let’s get you inside,” Greg chuckles, gathering their things, and Mycroft looks about as pleased as he does when his tailor finishes a bespoke suit for him. 

That evening in their beach house, with the sound of the waves crashing in through open windows, they find a few ways to enjoy the beach that don’t involve any sand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these boys :) Feel free to send me prompts for this series!


	5. "No, you're not alright"

It’s late and Greg’s stretched out on the sofa watching a Bake-Off repeat when he hears the familiar sound of Mycroft opening the door and carefully depositing his keys in dish in the entryway. 

Greg all but springs off the couch, failing miserably at his plan to  _ not  _ be over excited when Mycroft got home. He’s hardly heard from Mycroft for the last four days due to another one of his lengthy, top-secret work trips. Greg loves Mycroft and his passion for what he does, but he still misses him terribly when he’s away. 

“You’re home,” Greg says happily, coming over to greet Mycroft by the door. He reaches up and rests a hand on Mycroft’s cheek, looking him over. He’s pale - more than usual - and there’s a distinct tightness around his eyes that Greg recognizes. “And you’re exhausted.” 

Mycroft shakes his head, then seems to regret the motion a moment later, grimacing. “I have a slight headache and it was a long trip, but I’m well enough,” Mycroft murmurs, and Greg’s heart clenches a little at how Mycroft is used to denying how he feels, used to keeping the strong front that his job demands. 

“No, you’re not alright,” Greg frowns, and pulls Mycroft in for a soft kiss. “But I’ll take care of you, love. C’mon.” He slips his fingers between Mycroft’s and tugs him gently in the direction of their bedroom. 

Mycroft hesitates for a moment, then sighs, and Greg can see the metaphorical wall crumble. They walk hand in hand into the bedroom, and Mycroft lets Greg gently push him down to sit on the edge of their bed. He smiles bemusedly when Greg squats and starts taking off his shoes for him. “I hardly believe all the fuss is necessary, Gregory.” 

“Hush. You’re worth some fuss, ‘specially when you turn up looking like death warmed up.” Greg finishes with his shoes and helps Mycroft shrug out of his suit jacket, carefully hanging it up in their closet. “What sounds better, bath or bed?”

“Bed, I think,” Mycroft absently pinches the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes fall shut. “Could I trouble you to bring the paracetamol, my dear?” 

“‘Course,” Greg assures, coming over to rub a few circles on Mycroft’s back, and lays down a set of pajamas on the bed. “Why don’t you get cozy and I’ll go grab a few things. Go on,” he nudges when Mycroft doesn’t move. “You’ll feel better if you lay down, love.” 

“What would feel best is simply removing my head,” Mycroft mutters darkly, then rolls his eyes when Greg hovers next to him, clearly waiting for him to get changed. “Oh, all right.” 

Greg smiles, kisses the top of his ginger brown hair and heads off for the kitchen. By the time he’s made a cup of tea, heated up a single serve container of tomato soup and grabbed the bottle of painkillers, he returns to the bedroom to find Mycroft tucked up under the covers in his blue plaid pajamas. 

“Aren’t you cute,” Greg tuts, then laughs when Mycroft shoots him a withering look. “Well, you are!” 

“I am glad you are finding amusement in this misery, because I assure you I am not.”

“Aw, love,” Greg sighs, carefully setting the soup and tea down on their bedside table and tapping two pills out of the bottle. He hands them over and perches himself on the edge of the bed next to Mycroft. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so poorly. This trip really took it out of you, eh?” 

Mycroft swallows the tablets with a sip of tea and settles back against the pillows, closing his eyes. “Indeed. The buffoonery of our political cabinet astounds even me.” 

Greg chuckles, then nudges Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t sleep just yet. You need to eat something first.” He offers the bowl of soup and Mycroft eyes it dubiously. 

“Gregory, I am not in the least bit hungry.” 

“I know you’re not, but if you don’t eat now you’ll be nauseous from the medicine in a couple hours.” 

“Sometimes I wish you were slightly less perceptive,” Mycroft grumbles, but he accepts the soup and spoon anyway, and begins taking small sips. 

“You’re not as hard to figure out as you think,” Greg grins. “I  _ do  _ live with you, after all.” 

“I spent many years living with Sherlock and I’m surprised he even learned my name, for all that he gathered about me.” 

“Well yeah, that’s  _ Sherlock _ though,” Greg points out, standing and heading over to the bureau for a pair of pajamas. “I’d like to think he and I are a bit different.” 

“A bit,” Mycroft agrees dryly, watching Greg change into his pajamas. “Please, let’s not discuss my brother when I am watching you undress, my love.” 

Greg smirks, and does a dramatic hip roll, winking over at Mycroft. 

“Oh you insufferable man,” Mycroft huffs, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Unfair of you to tease me when I am incapable of doing anything about it in my convalescence.” 

Greg laughs heartily and finishes changing. He slides under the covers while Mycroft puts his soup back on the table (Greg noting happily that he’s finished more than half of it). He rolls on his side, allowing Greg to wrap his arms around him and pull his back flush against his chest. 

“There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow,” Greg murmurs into Mycroft’s neck, pressing his lips to his skin. “For now, you need sleep.” 

For once, Mycroft follows Greg’s advice, and sleeps.


	6. “Maybe I should turn off your alarm more often"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy Sunday morning with Greg and Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all need a bit of fluff right now, no? <3

Mycroft Holmes does not sleep in on Sundays. 

No, he is not one for long, lazy weekend mornings spent in bed, frittering away the hours doing nothing in particular. He considers the whole notion boring at best, downright indolent at worst. 

That’s why he’s confused when he wakes up one Sunday morning to sunlight casting long shadows across the duvet and birdsong chattering brightly outside. He groggily checks his phone, then blanches.  _ 9:30?  _ What on earth is he still doing in bed at such a ridiculously late hour? 

A quick check to his alarms solves the mystery easily. His usual Sunday alarms of 7:00 and 7:30 - for when he’s feeling truly indulgent - have been disabled. He rolls his eyes and huffs out a sigh, knowing exactly who’s to blame for this. 

“‘Morning, love,” Greg says merrily when Mycroft pads into the kitchen a few minutes later, cinching a silk dressing gown over his pyjamas. “Enjoy your lie in, did you?” 

“A lie in I did not intend for,” Mycroft grumbles, kissing Greg automatically. He runs a thumb over Greg’s silvery morning stubble that always makes him unfairly handsome in the mornings. “You turned off my alarms, you devilish man.” 

Greg grins toothily and slips a hand around Mycroft’s waist, warm and familiar. “I decided you needed more sleep. Boyfriend duties and all that.” 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose. “Aren’t we a bit old to be referring to ourselves as ‘boyfriends’, Gregory?” 

“Well, ‘man-friend’ sounds off, don’t you think?” Greg chuckles. 

“Perhaps we could simply go with the more appropriate ‘partner’, my love,” Mycroft answers dryly. 

“Mm,” Greg hums. “Have a seat,  _ boyfriend, _ ” he says pointedly, winking. “I’m making you breakfast.” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and makes no effort to move, only leans down the two or three inches it takes to bury his nose in Greg’s hair, breathing in the familiar smell of his shampoo. He can feel Greg’s chest vibrate as he chuckles again and pulls Mycroft closer, fingers finding their way under his dressing gown and splaying against his hip. 

“Maybe I should turn off your alarm more often, then,” Greg noses against the skin of Mycroft’s neck, who shivers slightly at the touch. “If you’re going to be this affectionate.” 

They hold each other close for a few long moments and Mycroft lets himself be lulled into the easy softness of it all, no countries to run or homicides to solve right now. Just the drip of the coffee pot, the chatter of the birds outside, and the warm body pressed against his that he knows better than his own, taking in the delicious scent of breakfast...burning? 

“Oh bugger!” Greg snaps out of the hug and hastily turns off the stove, fanning away the smoke curling from the skillet, obviously too late to save a blackened crepe. “You distracted me.” 

“I do apologize,” Mycroft says, trying and mostly failing to tamp down on a laugh. “I had no idea our breakfast was at stake.” 

Greg grumpily dumps the burnt crepe into the bin and shoos Mycroft away to sit at the table in the breakfast nook. “I’m trying to make a proper breakfast, so behave, you,” he points an accusatory finger and Mycroft holds up his hands in mock surrender. 

“I wouldn’t dare distract an accomplished chef in his work.” 

Greg snorts and turns back to the counter, pouring more flour into a bowl. Mycroft picks up the paper and starts reading, slipping on his readers. Greg brings him a cup of hot oolong tea a few minutes later, and Mycroft presses an absent minded kiss to his cheek in thanks. 

Mycroft hears, more than sees, Greg puttering around the kitchen, washing fruit in the sink and frying another round of crepes, as he continues reading the morning paper. But when the tinny sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me To Moon” starts playing from Greg’s phone, he finally glances up. 

“Really, Gregory?” Mycroft folds his paper and gives Greg a stern look over his reading glasses. 

“It’s a good song!” Greg defends, grinning and shimmying his hips. He comes over to Mycroft, hand extended. “Dance with me, love.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Mycroft scoffs, quirking an eyebrow. Greg just stands there expectantly, clearly undeterred, until Mycroft sighs. 

“Oh, alright.” He accepts the hand Greg offers and lets himself be pulled to the middle of their kitchen. 

Greg settles his hands on Mycroft’s hips, drawing him close. His deep brown eyes are alive with joy, and his cheerfulness is infectious. Mycroft lets himself be swept up in Greg’s contagious energy, smiling as well. There are many things Mycrfot loves about this man, but his bright, warm heart might just be his favorite. 

He catches one of Greg’s hands with his own, and slides the other around his waist. “If we’re dancing, at least let’s do it properly,” he admonishes, and starts a light sway between them, leading Greg with gentle steps. 

“... _ fill my life with song, and let me sing forever more _ ,” Greg croons along under his breath, slightly off key, and Mycroft chuckles lightly, rubbing his thumb over Greg’s hip. They sway along as they’re serenaded by Sinatra and the brassy, upbeat melody, breakfast altogether forgotten for the moment. 

Greg lets his head fall to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft tugs him closer, kissing the top of his hair. Mycroft’s chest swells with a rush of affection so strong it almost makes him breathless, even after years of holding Greg in his arms. 

“I’m quite fond of you, you know,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against the fine hair at Greg’s temple, pressing a kiss there. 

Greg looks up at him, eyes crinkling at the corners with a sunny smile. “I’m quite fond of you as well,” he murmurs, then presses his lips against Mycroft’s. He tastes like strawberries and coffee, and the tender kiss fills Mycroft’s whole body with light. 

It’s utter, selfish, indulgence, spending a Sunday morning dancing in the kitchen and exchanging kisses like a pair of lovesick teenagers, afterwards slowly making their way through a stack of crepes that they pile high with sticky sweet fruit and whipped cream, talking and soaking up each other’s company.

Yet Mycroft loves every minute of it. 


End file.
